


Clausura

by orphan_account



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 08:31:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18807502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Bertie and Jeeves try to help old Aunt Dahlia out of the soup, and within the course of events they get stuck in a wardrobe.Bertie, having had an unpleasant encounter with the interior of a desk once, is not chuffed about it and Jeeves, as always, endeavours to be of help to his young master and tries to comfort him...





	Clausura

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a prompt over at the give_satisfaction Kink Meme on Dreamwidth. Thank you to the prompter!

I have to admit that this B.W.W was never a great chum of being trapped inside his aged relative’s dusty wardrobe. Or any other small and dark space, that is.

Nasty things, small spaces. I couldn’t tell you exactly when my deep-hearted dislike of those chaps began, but I suppose it was the early evening of the 4th September of 1906.

‘Twas my first day at school, you see, and for a reason I cannot possibly remember now, a group of birds didn’t like the sight of the Wooster-face and decided to lock me into the headmaster’s desk drawer (I was rather a shrimpy sort of child, you know).  
It was not until the next m. that I was found by the h.m. himself and received a good number of cane strokes for bursting into tears upon seeing him.

So you see, that it is not without reason that the heart of your devoted author races at the thought of poky rooms and that sort of stuff.

But where was I? Dash it, I have started right in the middle of the thing again, I am afraid! But I am sure the dear reader willl forgive me my thickheadedness in this case, because I am not ashame to say that the Wooster-mind, far from well-equipped at the best of times, is still somewhat shaken by the rummy affairs of the evening. 

So, let me start again… eh, right ho!

This morning I was in a spiffing mood, sunshine, birds and all, and I had my first cup of tea at an unusually early hour. It can’t have been much later than 10 o’clock when I raised the willowy frame out of the bed and was greeted by a telegram of my dear old A. Dahlia.  
Jeeves (you know Jeeves, don’t you? I would be dashed surprised if you didn’t, because he has played a not unimportant role in my adventures so far).

Where was I? Ah, yes, Jeeves read this telegram to me while I just finished my second cup of tea. It went: 

WHAT-HO OLD TWIT STOP COME HERE AT ONCE STOP BRING JEEVES STOP DAHLIA

This is not unusual you see, because my dear a.r. often requires the help of her nephew and the genius brain that is his man to get her out of the soup. And because this Wooster-heart cannot refuse to help his fav. aunt in any case, the same afternoon I found myself in the drawing-room of the aforementhingummy relative.

„I say, old fruit!“ I exclaimed, „What is so important that you drag me here on such a fine morning in early May? I had appointments, you kn…“  
„Oh, be quiet, you halfwhit of a nephew! Where is Jeeves? I need him, now!“ My dear aunt was positively furious, like a fire- spitting dragon in one of these fairy thingies I liked to read as a child.  
„What’s all this fuss about, aged relative?“ I asked with genuine concern for the old girl.  
„Your uncle, Bertram! Oh, you men are all the same, useless and foolish in the best of times, but utter swines the rest of it!  
„Your losel of an uncle has an affair, Bertie! With that horrible American person who is staying with us! You know, Huffy Brickleston- Figg‘s friend from New York. Oh, it is awful!“  
„I say, old egg!“ I was astonished. Old boring Uncle Tom having an affair? „Do you have any proof ?“  
„That’s what I need you for! Or Jeeves, that is. He has been bally well cautious about it, but I am sure of it! So, get your man here and we can make a scheme…“

And thus, my dear reader, I found the old Wooster-frame pressed against the somewhat more solid body of my loyal man Jeeves in the tightest of spaces, i.e. the wardrobe of my Uncle Tom’s dressing-room.

In case you should wonder if this was the original intention of the brilliant plan my aged A. and Jeeves had forged out earlier, I can assure with all the honour of B.Wooster, that it had not been. No, dash it, the plan had been to pop into my uncle’s room for a minute to look if there was anything fishy among his stuff that would proof that rummy idea of Aunt Dahlia.

However, before we had the chance to take more than a glance around, Jeeves suddenly grasped my shoulder and dragged me into the nearest hide-away. I was about to protest (I mean, no bird likes to be manhandled) when I heard the door tot he dressing-room being opened and saw through the little gap in the wardrobe door how old Tom trudging in. I was hoping that he might just needed his pipe or smth. and that he would get it and leave, but to my great dismay, he settled down on his divan and started reading a book of sorts.

I mean, I say! What are studies, libraries and sitting-rooms and whatnots for, if not to sit down and read a book? Why, I am asking, can’t my uncle just act like a proper Englishman and use his dressing-room for what it was invented for back in the Stone Age or whenever the common design for English country houses was developed?

So, you see that the young master and his honest man were in a rather thick soup, there. 

And now we are back at the beginning of my story, and I have to say again, only in case that some of my honourable readers had a kip on the sofa or a quick round of darts at the beginning of this adventure and therefore missed the first part of it: Bertie doesn’t like small spaces. Not in the slightest. He would rather spend a night in Aunt Agatha’s bedroom than in a cupboard or a service lift or whatever other small space one can imagine (Tuppy Glossop once spent an evening in the service lift of the Drones, after he tried to get into the kitchen after the kitchen staff had gone).

After about two minutes in Uncle Tom’s wardrobe I felt as if there was no air to breathe anymore, and I was almost certain that the walls of the bally thing were coming closer and closer. I remembered that dreadful night in the headmaster’s desk and I must admit that my heart was pounding violently. 

Jeeves of course kept his usual composure. However he must have sensed that I didn’t feel very well, because he leaned forward and whispered in my ear: „Are you quite all right, sir? It appears that you are shivering.“

Oh, was I? I hadn’t noticed. With some trouble due to the lack of oxy-whatsit in the Wooster-organs, I tilted my head backwards and muttered: „The y.m. is not very“—breathe—„fond of situations like“—breathe—„this, Jeeves.“ Sweat was dripping down my forehead now, and I fumbled about in the dark to make sure that there was still a gap between my body and the walls.

Jeeves remained standing very still. „Are you claustrophobic, sir?“

I had never heard the word before, but then this was not extraordinary when I was talking to Jeeves.  
„If that means that I am afraid that this bloody wardrobe is going to swallow me alive any moment now, then yes, I am close…caus…“  
„Claustrophobia, sir, refers to the anxiety some individuals experience when being forced to stay in a place with limited space.“  
My man was standing very close to me now in order to have better access to my ear, and his warm presence against my back was rather soothing for the young master.“My younger sister suffers from the same condition, sir, and I have noticed that a certain relaxation of the body can be of help in these situations.“

And how was one supposed to relax his body when he was stuck inside of a tiny, tiny wardrobe together with his manservant?  
It was in this moment that I realised for the first time how strong and tall Jeeves really is. Of course I had noticed before that he is quite an impressive figure, but his manly physique had never been so evident to me.  
I leaned a bit backwards and whispered: „How…?“ 

„If you‘ll allow me, sir?“

And I felt two very warm, very firm arms coming around my willowy frame and pulling me slowly -as not to produce any suspicious noise- backwards. Jeeves lowered himself onto the wooden floor, causing the suits and shirts and other bits of clothes around us to rustle slightly. Then he pulled me even closer so that I was sitting half on his lap. This is, of course, not a very appropriate position for a young gentleman, but I was on the verge of tears by this time and I am sure that crying in front of one’s valet is even more un-gentlemanly than sitting on his lap, so I didn’t protest.

You will ask now, „Wooster, you old twit, how is sitting on another chap‘s lap supposed to help you when you are in a state of panic?“

Well, I can’t answer you the q. why it helped, I only know that it helped. Though I have to admit that at first I felt a bit self-conscious, not being used to being held by someone and all. 

You see, when you grow up as an orphaned child, being moved to and fro by a number of aged relatives, you don’t get a lot of physical attention and loving care and whatnot. Although my aunts, uncles and cousins surely loved me more or less, their affection never reached further than a kiss on the cheek or a fatherly pat on the shoulder.

But I mustn’t bore the dear reader with the sorrows of my distant youth. Back to the wardrobe.

As I said, I was now sitting on the floor, leaning against the solid body of my trusted servant who was still holding me between his arms. Sitting improved the whole cics. a bit, because there was more space above my head now, but it was still bally troublesome to breathe and my mouth was suddenly very dry.  
Then I felt a light pressure against my skull. Jeeves had moved his hands from my waist to my temples and was rubbing small circles into my scalp. It felt odd but at the same time it was most relaxing, and I am not ashamed to say that I leaned into the touch and rested my head on the warm Jeevesian shoulder.

„All right, sir?“ I heard the familiar voice in my ear.  
„Mmn, ´s better“ was all I managed to answer.  
„It always seemed to help my sister, sir.“ Jeeves continued stroking the y.m.‘s head with one hand but removed the other one which came to rest on my chest. My heartbeat slowed down a bit, and the dizziness I had experienced since we had entered the ruddy wardrobe began to fade. I felt safe in the strong embrace and, not having to fear being eaten by the darkness anymore, I closed my eyes.

I think I read somewhere once of a bird who lost his eyesight but therefore had a spiffing sense of smell. Something like this must have happened to me tonight, because when I closed my eyes I suddenly noticed an intruiging scent in the air; something lemony, beeswax and a spicy note I couldn’t quite place. I took a deep breath to get more of the scent, and Jeeves bent his head down again and mumbled: „That’s good, sir, long, deep breaths, like this.“

And then the most exraodinary thing took place. You might not believe it, honoured reader, but in this moment my man Jeeves, who always turns his nose up at my piano playing and sing and who refuses to accompany his master to any of the great jazz clubs in the metrop., this Jeeves now started humming quietly next to my ear. I don’t think it was a real tune, merely some notes he thought of while sitting there, but to me it was the sweetest thing I had everlistened to, better even than ‚Forty-seven Ginger-headed Sailors‘.

After a couple of m.s of leaning against the warm body, listening to Jeeves’s lullaby and breathing in his soothing smell, I was well enough to open my eyes again. I looked up into my man’s face and even though it was pitch black in the wardrobe, I thought I could see his soft blue eyes shining. And I have absolutely no idea what got into the weak Wooster-brain in this moment, but I reached out and stroked his cheek, rubbing my thumb over the traces of stubble there.  
“Thank you, my dear…“ ‚chap‘ I wanted to add, but then my mouth was closed by the warm and tender lips of said chap, and the weak Wooster-brain collapsed completely.

Everything was suddenly forgotten, the crowdedness, the darkness and all the anxiety. All I could do was to cling to my strong, wise Jeeves and melt away under his touch.

I say, when one reads through the last lines of this scribbling, it rather sounds like one of these soppy love thingies by Rosie M. Banks. I always believed that these kind of fierce emotions were inventions of the female mind, because I had never felt this way for one of the many fillies my aged relatives thrusted upon me, but this kiss there in-midst my Uncle Tom’s dressing robes and suits felt rather special. Not fireworks and violins maybe, but certainly a warm, fuzzy feeling deep inside of the Wooster-corpus.

I can’t tell you how long we sat there entangled, but it had to be a solid twenty minutes. I suppose we would have stayed longer, but as splendid as all this kissing and stroking and exchanging of lover’s oaths was, it could not make one forget completely that we were still stuck in a very small, very dark space, and after a while I could feel my breathing getting more troubled again ( even though this could also have been the fault of my dear man’s eager hands on his employers more private parts).

Be that as it may, when I peeked through the gap again, there was no sign of any aged r. to be seen, so Jeeves and I crawled outside and into the blessed air and sunshine of a golden early evening in the springtime.

Upon our return to Aunt Dahlia (which was after a fussing Jeeves fixed his y. master’s dishevelled appearance, of course) we had to discover that while the both of us had been hiding away, Uncle Tom had long left the dressing-room and he and Aunt Dahlia had had a mutual discussion (i.e. a monumental row). He had succeeded to convince the old aunt that he indeed did not have an affair, and Jeeves and I were released and allowed to return home.

You’re wondering why old Bertie is rushing things to an end now, aren’t you? Well, well, the answer to that is simple: a gentleman always has to make the right choices in his life; and right now the choice presented to me is to either fulfill my duties as your author and to finish this adventure properly tonight, or to postpone this until tomorrow and instead join my genius of a valet in my bedroom. And by Jove, if you ever had the pleasure to see my good man late at night scantily dressed in the Wooster bedchamber (and I do hope you have not!) you know which one I chose!

So, till the next time, dear reader, cheerio and toodle-oo!


End file.
